The Heavenly Seven
by Mariposa en Arrullo
Summary: "Well, look at you, Charles," Erik says, after a pointed cough forces him to turn his head and look. "How elegant."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters!**

**Notes: So this isn't underage; Charles and Erik are both at university. And this is my first X-Men fic, obviously. And it won't be long, so… I hope you like it! Tell me if I've made any errors :0)**

"Well, look at you, Charles," Erik says, after a pointed cough forces him to turn his head and look. "How elegant."

And then he groans internally, because Charles is wearing jeans (jeans!) and a terrible, terrible Thanksgiving sweater which was definitely made by a woman from last century. It's bright, garish, and very, very orange. Erik respectfully does not laugh, but Charles can see it in his eyes, and he flops down on the sofa where Erik's been reading and pouts.

"I know you're joking," he accuses, posh accent causing Erik's lips to twitch. "And it's not supposed to be elegant. It's supposed to be _hip._"

Erik shifts, mouth quirking. He sets down the book (_Explorations__of__the__Human__Psyche,_for Psychology) and plays along. "Trying to impress someone?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. Charles cares about his appearance far too much, but when he is, as he so eloquently puts it, 'on the prowl', he spends even more time fussing with himself.

"No, it's for the party," Charles prods. "Tonight, remember? In Lisa's room."

"I thought you hated Lisa," Erik retorts, not bothering to hide the horror on his face. Not another party, where alcohol is the main source of amusement and people entertain themselves by drinking it off body parts. He'd thought Charles had forgotten.

Charles looks up from where he's been twiddling with his hemline. "Yes, of course I do," he says, and scowls. Lisa Jackson is the sole reason that Charles's precious atomic history research paper had been drenched in Kool-Aid. It's the first failing grade he has received, as far as Erik knows, but that doesn't make it any less hilarious. "But that doesn't mean people I _do_ like aren't going to be there," he continues.

"You like everyone," Erik protests futilely. He rubs his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "But _if_ we go, please, please do not wear that sweater. For everyone's sake."

"It's festive!" Charles counters, lower lip sticking out. "For Thanksgiving."

"You don't even celebrate Thanksgiving," Erik points out. He raises one incredulous eyebrow. "What are you trying to do, blend in?"

Charles heaves a hapless sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "Yes," he admits sheepishly. Then, unexpectedly: "What do you think I should put on?"

Strange. Charles never asks for advice on clothes, especially not from a 'mono-palette' person like Erik. Yet it _is_ a different sort of situation than Charles's usual events, Erik thinks. "Something less... huge," he decides. "Maybe with a more muted color scheme." Who would have thought he'd be talking about clothes, let alone 'color schemes'?

Charles rolls his eyes. "Fine," he grumbles, and stands up. "I'll have to dip into my old wardrobe," he grouses over his shoulder, and Erik just smiles. Charles is the most dramatic person he knows when it comes to clothes, and he wonders fleetingly who the lucky girl is.

At ten minutes to eight Erik is jolted from a particularly exciting passage by another pointed sound. Annoyed, he looks up. And looks. And looks.

Charles's jeans are now much, much tighter than before, and from the way he's standing, with one hand on a cocked hip, Erik can see the round curve of his ass. His shirt is worn, but fashionably so, and it is so thin that Erik can see Charles's nipples through the fabric.

Erik swallows, because that is _so_ not what he meant when he said 'less huge.' The way Charles is dressed is bringing up a lot of things that Erik really would rather not think about right now, like the fact that he still hasn't told Charles he's gay, and that he might possible be in love with him.

Charles coughs from somewhere above, and Erik forces his head up to see him looking concerned. "I... is this - is this okay?" he asks, worry evident on his face.

"Yes," Erik manages; schooling his face back into what he hopes is a normal expression. "Great. Much... better."

"Good." Charles still has that look, quizzical and uncertain and something Erik can't quite name. He shifts where he's standing, and Erik realizes that he hasn't allowed himself to blink for the past thirty seconds or so. He lets out a long breath.

"I'll just go get ready," he mumbles, and sets his book down without folding down his page.

"Okay," Charles says, and Erik is careful not to brush him when he walks past.

**:::****  
><strong>  
>They're only a half an hour late when Erik steps out of his room, clad in a pale green tee shirt and black jeans. He slides on his leather jacket from where it's hung on the coat rack.<p>

"Better get going," he says, bracing himself for when Charles get up from the sofa and turns around.

It's just as bad as he remembers, and he stares rigidly at the wall as Charles pulls on a thin sweater.

"You all right?" Charles asks as they stroll out onto the campus lawn. It's dark, and Erik wishes they had brought a flashlight. He's glad, though, that Charles can't see his face.

"'Course," he replies brusquely, perhaps too brusquely, because instead of asking more questions Charles just subsides into quiet.

They're almost to Lisa's dorm building when Charles speaks again. "Look," he starts, and Erik winces. "You can go back if you want; I don't want to force you into anything."

Erik feels the heat of Charles's stare as he opens the doors. "You're not forcing me," he says, using the brightness of the lights as an excuse to not make eye contact. He squints to the side. "I wanted to come."

Charles snorts. "Yes, I'm sure," he retorts, but he sounds reassured, and they continue in silence down the hall.

"So who's the girl?" Erik inquires once they're inside the elevator. He tries to sound casual, and meets Charles's glance with all the innocence he can muster.

"There isn't a girl."

"There isn't a girl," Erik repeats skeptically. "There's always a girl with you, Charles."

For some reason Charles flushes at the words, whether from anger or embarrassment Erik can't tell. "Not always," he grits out, and his face is suddenly stony.

Erik gapes at him. "Okay," he says carefully, wondering what he's done wrong now. "That's fine. You just want to have fun, no...stuff. That's good." He stifles the feeling of relief in his stomach, because he isn't relieved that Charles isn't going to fornicate, because that would have meant he had been _jealous._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to my reviewers! You are all amazing people :D**

The door to Lisa's room is open when Erik and Charles finally reach it, and the hallway is strangely silent. When they get closer, though, Erik can hear low, animated voices, punctured by shrieks and giggles. He has a strong urge to turn around and run away, which would be 'very rude', as Charles would say, but he doesn't care. In fact, running away sounds quite nice as of now, and he allows himself to imagine it for a second, going back to his dorm room, just laying back on his bed, and maybe jerking off to the image of Charles taking off his jeans oh-so-slowly -

Charles knocks on the door where it's ajar, and Erik refocuses himself, ears burning. They wait, and he can feel Charles dart an apologetic glance his way.

When it becomes obvious that no one's coming, Erik glares pointedly. Charles gives him one of his patent (adorable) one-shoulder shrugs, and the edge of his lips twists up.

It's clear that Charles won't do anything but stand there patiently and wait forever for someone to come to the door, so Erik shouts, "Hello!" into the room, giving in. He sounds, admittedly, quite rude. Charles smiles with wide, too-blue eyes, and Erik's anger falters. Damn.

Not now, Lehnsherr, he berates himself. It's not the time to think about that. And yet he really can't help himself, and he peeks at Charles when he's looking away, noting the way his hair falls, and how smooth his skin is, and wondering whether the shell of his ear is really as translucent as it seems in the fluorescent lighting.

They hear a chorus of laughter from inside, and a few moments later Lisa stumbles to the doorway. She's wearing a hideous magenta low-cut shirt that barely hides a thing, and while Erik appreciates the view (well, he doesn't really), he doesn't like the way she grins drunkenly at Charles. To Erik she offers a frosty look, and he is absolutely _devastated_ not be greeted with a coffee-stained smile.

"Hey," Lisa says, flicking her eyes up and down Charles. She tucks a piece of mousy hair behind one multi-pierced ear in a way that she probably thinks is flirtatious, and Erik stifles a snicker.

"Hello!" Charles replies eagerly, and he gives her what Erik would call a winning smile. It's quite toothy and ostentatious, and he's so obviously overcompensating for Erik's coldness that it's almost hilarious.

Lisa gestures to the side. "We're all in there," she slurs. Her other hand waves vaguely to the left. "You can have some beer if you want. We might -" she burps - "be all out."

Ever the gentleman, Charles nods, ignoring the crude noise. "Fantastic," he says, and Erik nearly laughs out loud with the ridiculousness of it all.

Ten other people are sitting (or laying, in some cases) in a loose circle on the floor when Erik enters the other room. Most look up when Lisa leads the way in, and Charles is greeted with a few amiable 'heys', and Erik is greeted with a few not-so-friendly sneers.

He doesn't care. They're all holding red plastic cups, and the majority seem completely hammered. And these assholes aren't charming when they're drunk, not like Charles is, when his nose turns red and he laughs too much and his lips get all shiny. Even though Erik would never admit that aloud.

A sullen looking Goth girl scoots over to make room in the sloppy circle, and Charles plops down without a second's hesitation. Erik kneels cautiously, giving the boy on his right a wary glance. He's brawny, and Erik can't help but wonder if he could fight the guy. Maybe not - he's got that big muscle strength. Erik's leaner, but he's fast.

And then he stiffens, because Charles's mouth is at his ear and _ohgod_ he can almost feel it tickling the skin there.

"Stop looking like you're in prison," Charles whispers, and hysterically, Erik think he can feel him smile against his ear. Erik's whole body is as tight as a board, and his hands are clenched on his thighs. He forces himself to relax.

"I do not look like I'm in prison," Erik protests, and he makes himself look at Charles because if he didn't, it would look suspicious. It doesn't help that Charles is giving him an indulgent, teasing grin. His mouth is already red, and Erik hopes he isn't drinking out of the Goth girl's cup. He's about to launch out on a tirade about sanitary drinking habits when Lisa stands up.

"Okay, we're going to play now," she announces, and her mouth curves into a smile. She does a little twirl, showing off an ugly pair of rhinestone jeans, and then sits back down.

Erik's confused. He slants a look towards Charles, and they make eye contact briefly. Charles shakes his head; he doesn't know what's going on either.

"What are the rules?" calls some idiot, who's got his hand up a blond girl's shirt and is looking extremely pleased with himself.

"The game's called seven minutes in heaven, you douche," says his friend. "You spin a bottle and whoever it lands on you gotta go make out in a closet with them or something."

Oh, for God's sake. Erik considers leaving again, but Charles gives him an imploring look, and he stays put grudgingly.

"- for seven minutes, like exactly," Lisa was saying. "And you can do other stuff, too."

"How much other stuff?" a guy asks, and then a few people cackle.

"As far as you wanna go," Lisa says, grinning. "Don't think you could last seven minutes anyway."

People 'ooh', and she sits down smugly.

Sarah is another girl that Erik knows, and she isn't any better than the others. "Okay," she says excitedly. "Whoever guesses the number I'm thinking of gets to spin first."

Erik knows the number Charles will guess before he says it. Eighteen, the same age Raven is. It's his lucky number.

Except maybe it's not so lucky, because Sarah claps her hands enthusiastically when he says it. "That's it!" she exclaims, and puts an empty Miller Lite bottle in the middle of the floor.

Charles is looking a bit nervous, all of the sudden. He smiles anyways, and reaches out to twirl the bottle, looking a little awkward and so annoyingly _Charles_ that Erik almost feels irrational anger towards whomever he's going to kiss for the next seven minutes. Almost, but not quite. He can't afford to let himself, because that would just be off the charts on the pathetic scale.

It's not like he hasn't imagined kissing Charles. He has. Usually he ends up with wet pants and a firm resolve to _get__over__him,_ and it's not a pleasant ordeal.

Erik thinks so hard about not being _jealous_ that he doesn't notice the noise around him has stopped. It's almost dead silent.

When he looks up, people are staring at him, with parted mouths and smashed faces.

And then he looks down, and the bottle's neck is facing directly, and indisputably, right towards where he's sitting on the carpeted floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to my dahling reviewers! I hope you like this :3**

**Warning: Strong language**

After a few moments there's laughter, and someone hoots and another girl catcalls. Erik's sure he hears another person say, "Oh, it's _them_, that's fucking hilarious." He doesn't want to think about what that implies. He'd thought he was under the radar, beneath any gossip or rumors. He and Charles do spend a lot of time together, but Charles is his roommate, for God's sake. It's _normal._

Charles is as red-faced as Erik has ever seen him, and he's smiling good-naturedly like he always does but Erik can see the slight tinge of panic in his roommate's eyes. He contemplates running away for what feels like the hundredth time.

Lisa isn't looking too pleased with how things have turned out, but she gives in to the calls of approval around her and gets up. "Okay, I'll show you where the closet is," she says, and Erik follows Charles to the door. He wishes he'd had that drink now. If they were drunk, dead, out-cold drunk, this wouldn't be so bad. He might even have been able to forget about it the next morning.

It's cold and unfortunately very tiny inside the closet. Erik catches one last glimpse of light, of bright blue walls and a snatch of giggles, before the door closes. He can hear Charles breathe, a steady, in-out rhythm, and they're way too close to be appropriate. But then, Erik decides, there's really nothing appropriate about this at all.

"I'll try to find a light." Charles's voice is dismembered in the darkness, and Erik swears that he feels air slide lightly across his own face as he speaks. It's far too pleasant to be comfortable. He shifts awkwardly as Charles feels around the walls for the switch.

"Say something," Charles says after maybe thirty seconds of black, dusty silence. Erik sighs; Charles is panicking. Of course, Charles has been in situations like this before, but Erik assumes he's never had to do this with another guy. And definitely not Erik himself.

"What do you want me to say?" Erik winces as his voice comes out cold and sharp. He dries his palms on his jeans.

There's a rustling sound. "I'm so sorry," Charles rushes out. Erik wishes he could see his face. He can imagine it, though - forlorn and nervous with his teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyes huge.

"It's fine," Erik replies curtly. He tries to sound less formidable. "I mean, you know. I'm not angry."

He thinks he can actually feel the worry melt out of Charles. "Good." And then Charles clears his throat. "Do you mind if I move forward a bit?" he asks, and Erik freezes. "It's just - there's a nail sticking out of the wall on this side."

Shit. "Go ahead," Erik manages. The step that Charles takes brings them almost flush against each other. Erik is so supremely fucked that there really isn't any question anymore.

He doesn't think about it, he very definitely does not think about it. They're touching almost all the way up their bodies, and it's completely stupid but Erik imagines it. Calves, thighs, crotches (though those are a bit spread out, thank God), stomachs, chests. And Charles's hair is tickling Erik's nose. It should worry him that that last part doesn't even bother him the slightest bit.

Charles smells like alcohol. "You're drunk," Erik accuses half-heartedly, trying to sound normal and not painfully not-aroused.

"'M not."

He almost chuckles. "How did you manage to drink that much beer in such a short period of time?"

"You should like beer more," Charles mumbles. This time, Erik is certain that the puffs of air on his neck are from Charles. "Your people invented it, after all."

"There are so many things wrong with that sentence I won't even dignify it with a response," Erik says, smiling despite himself.

Charles looks up then, and he's grinning as well. His teeth are bright white, only a few scant inches from Erik's mouth, as he is sharply aware.

He's not sure who starts the kiss, but Erik is the one who breaks it off. Charles's lips are on his for two glorious, short seconds. His mouth is hot and soft and pliant, and Erik's hands migrate up to rest on Charles's hips in the tiny interval that they're locked together.

He stops abruptly.

"Erik -" Charles blurts out, interrupting Erik's terrified _whatwasthatohgod._

"I," says Erik. "I don't -" Don't what? he asks himself. He's gone from determinedly flaccid to half-hard just from that two second kiss. Jesus Christ. He' sure Charles can feel it, too, the way he's still standing too goddamn close.

Fuck, he's really done it now. Really gone and screwed everything over. Sometimes he really hates himself.

They're both waiting for the other to go on, but Charles has never been very good at waiting. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry -" he begins frantically, and his voice has the same consternation that Erik heard before.

And Erik's really confused, because Charles is apologizing. Still apologizing, the words spilling out faster and more frightened as Erik stays silent.

If it had been a normal argument, Charles would have been touching him by now. He'd be patting Erik's shoulder, or squeezing his arm. But this is different.

"Charles," Erik says, forcing his voice to sound like a human. It's difficult when his throat is bone-dry from swallowing too many times, and his jaw aches from clenching his teeth together.


End file.
